


All Them Clever Drawings

by howler32557038



Series: The Simple Life [8]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Arguing, Domestic Avengers, Domestic Fluff, Explaining Pregnancy to a Five Year Old, Family Drama, M/M, Minor Wanda Maximoff/Vision, Miscommunication, Mpreg, Post Mpreg, Post-The Simple Life, Pre-Something Good Can Work, Pregnancy, Romantic Comedy, Vision Loves Humans, Vision's Cooking, pregnancy reveal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-13 00:12:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15351903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howler32557038/pseuds/howler32557038
Summary: Five years after the events ofThe Simple Life, Steve and Bucky are faced with the task of telling their only child that's he's not going to be an only child much longer.





	All Them Clever Drawings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DinahMighty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DinahMighty/gifts).



> Hi, guys! Feels like it's been forever. I'm just dropping this post off really quick - it's unedited and unproofread, but it's what I got! I'll have the next chapter of [Something Good Can Work](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14630541) up this weekend, but I can't get away with posting this particular chapter without a thorough edit. Thanks for your patience!

Bucky leads the way from the elevator to the quarters he shares with Steve and Lincoln, moving at a quick stride through the common room and down the hallway. Like he’s on a mission with a ticking clock. He supposes, in a way, that he is.

Steve matches his pace as he follows behind him. They don’t speak, even though Bucky knows they should be formulating some kind of plan. The ride up the elevator had been equally silent. Finally, when Bucky’s hand is on the door, ready to turn the handle, he catches Steve’s eye and stops.

“How’re we gonna do this?”

“Together?”

“No shit. We’re not flying solo on this one. What are we going to _tell_ him?”

Steve has a vacant, dazed look in his eye. Bucky doesn’t even know why he bothered to ask him. Steve _just_ found out he’s going to be a dad all over again. Bucky’s had hours to recover from the news. Steve’s currently in the same state he himself had been in on the jet, when he’d spent an hour floating aimlessly from crying, to cussing, to vomiting, to lying very still on his side, rendered senseless by his racing thoughts. “Um...everything?” Steve suggests.

“He’s five years old, Steve, we can’t tell him _everything.”_

“All we have to do is tell him...there’s going to be...he’s going to — we’re having another baby. God, shit, Bucky, we’re having another _baby—!”_ he gushes.

Bucky lays his left hand firmly against Steve’s chest, effectively silencing him. “Steve.” And Steve looks like a dog waiting for a command. “I’m going to be Lincoln. You — just be yourself.” _This is going to be hilarious._ “Tell me what you want to tell me.”

“Are we...roleplaying?”

“Just do it.”

“Okay, uh...we’re having another baby.”

“When?”

“In nine months! No, wait, less than that.”

“Where are we going to get another baby?”

“Papa’s pregnant.”

“What’s pregnant?”

“He knows what pregnant means!”

“It’s 6:40 in the morning, Steve, he knows _nothing.”_

“Okay. There’s a baby inside him, like you learned about when we talked about baby animals, I guess.”

“Where is it?”

 _“_ In— _inside_ him. In his belly.”

“How’s it going to get out?”

Steve falters. “Uh...well, you’ll — he’ll go to a doctor — to Bruce, and Bruce will get it out.”

 _Nice save._ But Bucky has been lenient. Lincoln, on the other hand — that little bastard plays hardball. Time to deliver the killing blow. “How did it get in there?”

“Oh, no.”

“Yeah, that’s right, pal. _Oh no.”_

“Oh, _no._ We can’t tell him about sex. And we said we’re not doing the stork bullshit right?”

“Fuck the stork thing.”

“God, but he’s only five, that’s way too young for the talk.”

“What _talk,_ Steve?”

“The _sex_ talk, Bucky, you know what I—”

“What, the one that goes ‘ _When a guy and lady love each other very much, they stick their penis and vagina together and nine months later a baby pops out of the girl’s cunt?’_ Not fuckin’ applicable. There _is_ no _talk_ for us, Steve. We’re on our own. Fuckin’ uncharted waters.”

“We could just...change up the anatomy. Make it more appropriate for our...situation.”

“Okay. I’ll be Lincoln,” Bucky snaps frustratedly, leaning against the door to show he now expects to be out here arguing for a while. “Explain anal sex to me.”

Steve stands there for a few seconds, looking like the next thing out of his mouth might be his heart and lungs. Finally, he lets out the breath he’s been holding. “I can’t do it. I can’t even start. It’s too weird.”

“Makes you never want to fuck again, huh?”

“I never realized how disgusting _sex_ is — Jesus, it’s horrifying—”

“Look, I don’t know how to do this either.”

“Stork thing is looking pretty appealing, Buck.”

“ _Hard_ no.”

“Let’s just wing it.”

Bucky stares at him, hoping his expression doesn’t convey too much of his second-hand embarrassment over Steve’s brief lapse of common sense, but finally, he realizes how long it’s been since he slept. He gives up. “Fuck. Fuck it. Fine. But look, if his line of questioning gets all the way back to the surgeries...just tell him I had surgery. Nothing else. Let him think it was voluntary.”

Steve looks upset by that suggestion. “Bucky — I can’t pretend that was _voluntary—”_

“I don’t want him to think I didn’t want him.”

Steve falls suddenly silent, then nods his understanding. Acceptance. “Okay.”

And they open the door.

* * *

 

“Hello, Bucky, welcome back.” Vision is uncannily casual with his greeting, as he stands over a cast iron skillet full of potatoes, tomato slices, and sausage. The team hasn’t needed Vision’s firepower for the past few months, so he’s been lending his analytical skills to ops and surveillance at the Facility. It’s given him the opportunity to spend a lot of time at their apartment with Lincoln, and Bucky’s beginning to wonder if there’s more to his frequent visits than boredom and a tirelessly helpful disposition. He seems completely fascinated, both by domestic life and by Lincoln himself. “The tracker you left with Batroc is functioning nicely. He’s already on his way to Edina. Your fib about that weapons cache must have been convincing.”

“Good,” Bucky nods, tossing down his bag beside Steve’s shield as he takes stock of the apartment. Not messy this time. Not in the least. In fact, it’s spotless and smells like lemon and soap, and so does Steve. The living room carpet still shows the tracks of the vacuum’s wheels. Most of it hasn’t even been walked on. Bucky gives Steve a brief glance, eyebrows raised and mouth open, just to let Steve know he _could_ say something and Steve looks momentarily guilty, before making some vague gesture of confession and mouthing, _Oh, come on._

Bucky can let the fact that they’d probably wrecked the apartment slide. He’s got bigger questions. “Why isn’t Lincoln sleeping in his bed?”

“That’s where he fell asleep, Buck.”

“At, what, three in the morning?”

“He slept before that.”

“Sure he did. Vision, that smells really good.”

“Thank goodness,” he sighs expressively. “I do get lucky, sometimes. Never with eggs, though. Always bad luck with eggs.”

“Why’s that?”

“Wanda describes it as a certain sempiternal fishiness. Breakfast, anyone?”

Lincoln pops out from underneath the afghan like someone has called his full name. No shirt. Bucky is ready to bet a thousand dollars he’s got no pants on, either (God knows why he ever got that kid pajamas). Lincoln’s eyes aren’t even open yet, but the smell of food is causing his attention to gravitate kitchenward nonetheless.

“Well, good morning,” Bucky smiles flatly.

“Papa?” he slurs excitedly, prying his sleep-filled eyes open at last.

And suddenly there’s nothing else on Bucky’s mind — no stress or exhaustion from the long mission, no trepidation over the unexpected pregnancy, no anxiety over telling Lincoln about it. He’s just glad to see him. Bucky hurries over to the sofa just as Lincoln makes an unsteady effort to stand up on the cushions, puts his arms out, and then wraps himself around Bucky’s shoulders and waist, demanding to be held. If there’d been someone to take him up on that bet, Bucky would have his thousand dollars. Hopefully, Vision won’t be too offended by a five year old running around the house in Daniel Tiger underpants.

“Papa, I missed you so bad.”

That’s all it takes — Lincoln can wear whatever he wants, company be damned. Bucky shuts his eyes, one hand cupping the back of Lincoln’s head, feeling himself recharging like a dead battery hooked to jumper cables. “Hi, sugar — God, I missed you, too.”

“Um, how did you get — why you have a black eye? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I let a bad guy punch me.”

“Why can’t you just — you should have punched him before he punched you.”

“I didn’t want him to know how strong I was just yet,” Bucky laughs. “I wanted to surprise him.”

“And then you probably kicked his butt. And maybe you yelled, like, ‘surprise!’ or something.”

Lincoln doesn’t care about the details, and getting caught with an open comm line in his ear then running away doesn’t make a good story. “Yeah, you know it. Come on — let’s get you dressed.”

“But — is there breakfast? Because I can smell something and it smells really amazing and I am _so_ starving.”

“Clothes, then breakfast.”

“But — no, Papa, listen — I don’t want clothes or long pants, because I’m hot. I can’t do pants right now.”

“Nobody wants pants, Lincoln, but those are the rules.”

* * *

 

Steve is probably being a little rude, ignoring Vision like he is, opting instead to watch Bucky and Lincoln disappear down the hall and into Lincoln’s bedroom. He can’t help it. Sometimes, he still wonders if he’s going to wake up from this dream. It’s been five years, and he’s only just beginning to let himself believe it’s all real. Bucky’s alive, war’s over, brilliant, amazing son, _another baby on the way, holy shit—_

“You seem much happier these days, Steve.”

Vision is plating the food, adding sliced halves of avocado to the top of each generous pile, staring studiously at him as he works. Steve smiles at the sheer level of understatement. “Yeah, well — life’s pretty good.”

“You know,” he sighs, seeming to think in a very human way about how to phrase something — trying to put words to a feeling, as he sets three plates down on the table between the living room and the kitchen. “I remember watching you — before _this,”_ he smiles, indicating the yellow stone embedded on his brow. “Tony had developed me into an incredibly advanced system, by the end. I had learned so much, but I was only capable of analysis. I was convinced — although I knew it wasn’t my place to provide a diagnosis — that you were displaying symptoms of depression. You had trouble sleeping. Nightmares. You used to stare at photographs of him. And yet, you never let the others see how deeply affected you were by his absence.”

“One crisis after another,” Steve laughs sadly. “Didn’t have much time to deal with that stuff.”

“After the Mindstone,” Vision continues, pulling out a chair and taking a seat at the table, “I had something — a tool — at my disposal beyond simple analysis. I suppose it was empathy. I can’t quantify _how_ or _in what way,_ but I was aware of your hope. Your faith, if you will, that you would find him and help him. Statistically, I could still recognize that it was very nearly impossible. Even after you had found him, there were insurmountable odds to overcome — I apologize for the part I had in creating them — and yet you persevered until you felt…” and he trails off, silently parsing through phrases, almost as if he’s thumbing through a filing cabinet. “Would it be too cliché to say, _until you had achieved your dream?”_

“A little clichéd,” Steve chuckles. “But accurate. You could definitely say my dream came true.”

“I have dreams, now,” Vision muses. Steve tips his head, shocked into full attentiveness and curiosity. “Not the standard definition, I suppose — but I have aspirations. Perhaps I’m beginning to understand _hope._ Faith may take longer,” he smiles.

“Faith’s hard,” Steve nods. “I have trouble with it, too. Everybody does. Some people never quite get it.”

“You know, I haven’t the slightest idea why I became so attached to the concept of learning to cook,” Vision laughs, leaning back in his chair to stare up at the ceiling. “I had no aptitude for it. I didn’t even have the correct faculties judge my own progress. I couldn’t self-asses. I can’t taste, can’t smell, I don’t eat. And yet — rather blindly — I tried.”

“What made you try?”

“Wanda,” he replies instantly. “I needed to make her happy, and I didn’t know how. I thought that it might demonstrate...that I cared for her. That’s why I tried.”

“Because you love her.”

“Yes, I think so,” Vision nods hesitantly. “It feels presumptuous to say so. But I suppose I could — I _wanted_ her to be happy. I _wondered_ how to make her happy. And I _hoped_ that cooking her a meal — even though I didn’t know how — would show her. How I felt.”

“Did it work?”

“No, I don’t think so,” he sighs, grinning. “Not at first. But I continued to try. I kept hoping it would.”

“Sounds a lot like faith.”

Vision is silent for a few long seconds after that. Steve can see something just beyond the biomechanical processes in his eyes — something more visceral. “Maybe. Fortunately, she began to appreciate my attempts, in spite of my results.”

“This is actually delicious,” Steve remarks, breaking down and taking a bite of the potatoes and sausages, even though Bucky and Lincoln aren’t at the table yet. He can overhear them arguing about clothes in the other room — sounds like Lincoln is once again advocating for his belief that shirts aren’t required under overalls. Steve figures it’ll be a minute. “What’s this about, Vision?” he finally asks, smiling invitingly. He has a hunch, already. “Things going alright with you and Wanda?”

“Spectacularly.”

“Are you...starting to think this looks like something you might consider?” Steve suggests, directing his gaze pointedly down the hall, toward Lincoln’s room. “A family?”

Vision sounds almost surprised when he answers, “I don’t know.”

Their conversation ends abruptly, as Lincoln runs out of the bedroom, shirtless, overalls pulled up to his waist and unfastened. Bucky follows behind him in a slow, tired pursuit, holding a t-shirt with the neck-hole stretched between his hands. Steve watches him make his way down the hall, suddenly so presently, overwhelmingly aware that he’s pregnant, that he was pregnant the last time he saw him, too, and that there’s _another_ baby on the horizon who, in a way, is already home with them. They just didn’t know about it until this morning. It’s a strange kind of excitement that Steve doesn’t expect he’ll ever get used to.

Bucky catches his son by the waist just as Lincoln reaches the table, hooks both his arms and the shirt around him, and drags him into his lap as he sits down. It’s a complex maneuver, but fluid and practiced. Once Lincoln is trapped, Bucky wrests the shirt over his head and pulls his arms out of the sleeves, buckles the overalls, and then takes a pair of socks out of his pocket and gets those on him, too. Lincoln is about as cooperative as a puppy with a steak in front of its nose, and once Bucky’s done forcing him into his clothes, he escapes from his lap, climbs into the chair beside Vision, and gets to work on the potatoes like he hasn’t been fed in a week.

“Lincoln, is that good?” Steve asks needlessly.

“Yeah, did — Papa, did you make this?”

“Nope, Vision made it.”

“Vision, you make potatoes better than my papa. When he makes them they’re kind of hard but I like how these are soft on the inside but they’ve got crunchy parts.”

Bucky snorts. “Well, maybe Vision can give me his recipe.”

Steve catches Vision’s eye and grins. He’s never seen him look quite so delighted. Doesn’t look altogether sure what to do with the sense of _accomplishment_ that’s swiftly replacing a perceived inadequacy _._ Steve wonders if that _I don’t know_ had something to do with Vision feeling like even if he and Wanda _had_ a child, through adoption or any other means, he still wouldn’t be able to perform even the most basic functions of raising one. Maybe he senses there might be hope for even that unlikely possibility. “Thank you, Lincoln,” Vision replies politely, although Steve can hear a hundred other unspoken thoughts behind the perfunctory response. “I’m very glad you like it."

* * *

 

Steve and Bucky wordlessly agree to wait until after breakfast to begin the conversation about the new addition. Vision says his goodbyes and a very quiet, “Best of luck,” as he leaves, and gets a big hug of gratitude from Lincoln, who thanks him yet again for breakfast, and personally invites him to come back and fry more potatoes any time he wants. And then, they’re left alone with the looming task, throwing each other desperate, questioning glances whenever Lincoln affords them a moment.

“I want to go outside,” Lincoln declares suddenly. And it’s lucky they don’t have any other plans, because he’s already putting his shoes on.

“Good,” Steve unintentionally remarks, knowing it will buy him a few more minutes to think. “What do you want to do? I can bring the sidewalk chalk. Or if you want to grab your shorts we can go play in the sprinkler.” He lowers his voice and leans close to Bucky. “I can go wear him out for an hour or two if you need to sleep.”

“You haven’t slept either.”

“Oh, I’ll sleep when I’m dead, Buck. You—you’ve got that _thing,_ though, so you should probably get some—”

“I’ll bring a blanket and nap out there. Just let me jump in the shower and grab clothes.”

Bucky kisses his cheek and slips off to the bathroom. Lincoln is finishing the still-laborious process of tying his shoes and Steve is rehearsing hundreds of different versions of the ominous _talk_ when the door opens again, followed by the afterthought of a knock. Steve knows who that is, and reaches back to swing the door open.

“Lincoln!” he shouts. “Look who’s home.”

“Sam! Sam! Sam!”

Lincoln sprints across the living room and into his godfather’s arms as Sam screams excitedly in reply, but the hug is a little briefer than normal. Sam seems worried, and by the look of him, he’d come up to the sixth floor straight off the jet.

“Op with Lang go alright?” Steve asks.

“Not exactly,” Sam laughs unhappily. “Some bank managers in Florida swear they got mind-controlled into getting so depressed they ‘gave away’ a bunch of money.”

“Were they?”

“Depressed? Yeah, they were bank managers, of course they were depressed.”

“Mind-controlled.”

“Not a bit of evidence. Seems like they were just trying not to get caught stealing. Turned it over to all the letters — SEC, FDIC, FBI, all of that.”

“Good call.”

“So what’s going on?” he says softly, still bouncing Lincoln on his hip. “Ran into Nat down in the hanger, she said you and Barnes had some sh—something happened.”

“Sam did you catch any bad guys?”

“Yes!” he announces. “But they were just regular bad guys. Not super bad guys, like we thought they were gonna be.”

“That’s still good! Good job, Sam. I’m gonna make you a present.”

“Really? Like, for real? What kind of present?”

“Yeah, it’s...um, it’s going to be a picture. Probably of you fighting the — who you fought. Of you fighting the bank guys.”

“When do I get it? Can I get it now? I mean, I _have_ to have it.”

Lincoln struggles out of Sam’s grasp and hits the ground running, headed for his bedroom and his paper and markers. “I’m gonna go make it really quick. Don’t leave!”

“Make sure you sign it!”

“Nice one,” Steve nods.

“Thank you. Alright, what’s going on? Barnes okay? Something happen with that dealer he was tracking?”

“No — no he’s fine,” Steve assures him lightly, letting a slow, complacent smile spread across his face in the expectant silence that follows.

“Steve, what the hell?”

“Guess.”

“Fuck you, man, I’m too tired to play some ‘guess what’ bullshit.”

“Oh my God, Sam, just guess.”

“Wedding? You set a date?”

“Nope.”

“Then I don’t care.”

“You care.”

“You closed the AIM case.”

“I did not.”

“Get on, that, Cap.”

“It’s — that’s _complicated,_ man.”

“It’s not _complicated._ Catch the bad guys, Steve. Not that hard.”

“Fuck off and work your own cases, Sam. Get off my dick.”

“Just closed mine, thank you, so consider your dick dismounted.”

“Bucky’s pregnant.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Sam, Bucky’s pregnant.”

“Wait — _what?_ One more time?”

“He’s pregnant, Sam.”

Sam stands there with his mouth open in a shocked, elated grin for a few seconds, before raising his arms slowly to pull Steve into a hug. “Oh, shit. Oh my God. Oh no, man, here we go again,” he laughs, patting Steve’s back harder and faster with each successive syllable. “Lincoln, you excited or _what?”_

For a moment, Steve is just confused. And then, the paralysis of shock grips him. He might have just fucked up _massively._ He makes himself turn around, back toward the hallway.

He did, in fact, fuck up massively.

Lincoln looks like he knows he just walked-in on a conversation he wasn’t supposed to overhear. It wouldn’t be the first time — he’s overheard some foul language before, even accidentally interrupted a few romantic encounters — but he’s always laughed afterward, or felt guilty, or embarrassed. Not now. He’s looking at Steve like he’s _hurt._ Betrayed. Like one of the people he trusts most in the whole world has been keeping him in the dark, hiding something important and life-changing from him. Steve feels the smile on his face slacken with dismay.

“Lincoln, hey—” he manages weakly.

“I was — Dad, I just needed to know where those — um, those shiny colored pencils are,” Lincoln’s voice sounds just about as faint as Steve’s does.

“I put them away in your artbox—Lincoln, listen, buddy—”

“No, I gotta go do this picture.” And he runs back down the hall. Steve gets the feeling that the picture’s the last thing on his mind.

“I take it he didn’t know.”

“Hadn’t...gotten to that just yet.”

“Oh, damn.”

“It’s okay, Sam, I’ll talk to him.”

“I am _so_ sorry.”

“No, no, don’t be. It’s — I had a feeling he wasn’t gonna take it well. Not your fault, Sam.”

“Call me if you guys want to hang out later?” Sam suggests, inching back toward the door, clearly eager to escape. “If I’m not in trouble?”

“That one was on me, buddy.”

“Oh, good,” Sam nods slowly, and shuts the door in his own face.

* * *

 

A mission’s worth of cuts and bruises certainly won’t wash away after one shower; in fact, the steam and hot water only makes the sting and ache worse, but Bucky still feels like it helps. It’ll be enough to get him back on his feet for the rest of the day, and then he can sleep for eight hours. He tips his head back, letting the water beat against his exhausted eyelids, vividly imagining a bed full of cool blankets and uninterrupted sleep in a silent room. It’s a beautiful fantasy.

His hair and face are covered with soap when he hears the door to the bathroom open and shut. Even before Lincoln has the opportunity to speak, Bucky knows it’s him. He and Steve may not afford each other _much_ privacy anymore, but at least Steve gives him a warning-knock. Lincoln hasn’t yet bothered.

With a heavy sigh, Bucky tries to rinse the shampoo out of his eyes before the inevitable happens — he gets about three seconds, and then Lincoln sticks his head inside the shower curtain.

“Papa.”

“Can you hang on?”

“Not really.”

“Baby, just give me a second. Covered in soap.”

Lincoln’s voice suddenly sound tearful. Bucky finally cracks an eye open and gets a look at him. Looks like he’s barely holding himself together. “Dad said you’re pregnant.”

It’s a damn good thing that Bucky’s got himself mostly rinsed off, because he’s not thinking too straight when he shuts off the shower, snatches a towel off the rack to throw around his waist, and walks right past poor Lincoln and out of the bathroom. Steve’s on his way down the hall, but Bucky turns his ass back around toward the kitchen with one pointed finger and a steady stare. Steve retreats almost clumsily. He can see that Bucky’s pissed. Bucky’s not exactly making an effort to hide it.

“Steve, what the fuck?” Bucky whispers, fighting against every single instinct that’s desperately telling him to raise his voice. “What the hell happened?”

“He just overheard—”

“What happened to doing this together?”

“Bucky, I’m sorry, I thought he was—he was in the other room, I was just telling Sam—”

“I don’t fucking care where he was. You know he has enhanced hearing, right?”

“I know, I was just excited, and I wasn’t thinking—”

“God, can you not function under pressure? How do you do your _job?”_

“I had no idea he was standing there.”

“Well, he was.”

“Bucky, look, I feel so goddamn bad I could cry, but he’s—”

 _“You_ could cry? Looks like our _son’s_ about to cry, I’m not worried about _you_ crying—”

“Jesus, do you have to fucking _guilt_ me?”

“I’ll guilt you until you fuckin’ learn to be more careful!”

“Come on, it was a fucking accident, Buck—”

“He is _upset,_ Steve — this was supposed to be a good thing, and now we’re stuck doing damage control because you can’t—”

“Bucky, we’ll deal with it. Stop being an asshole.”

“Are you kidding me? There wouldn’t have been anything to deal with if you hadn’t—”

“Okay,” Steve snaps harshly, just loud enough to stun Bucky into silence. “That’s enough.” He hadn’t yet raised his voice above a soft, apologetic whisper, but when he hits his limit, he hits it hard. “We will fix this; I’m sorry. It’s only gonna to make this worse if he hears us arguing.”

Bucky recognizes that Steve is right, but it’s going to take him at least a few seconds to admit it. Unfortunately, he doesn’t get the opportunity to peaceably concede the fight.

“Papa?” comes the muffled voice from down the hall. “Um, am I allowed to come out of the bathroom yet?”

 _Oh._ He _did_ shut him in there, didn’t he? Fuck. He _is_ an asshole. Bucky feels himself pale with guilt and embarrassment as he and Steve hurry back down the hall and open the bathroom door to find their son standing forlornly, arms limp at his sides, hair damp from sticking his head into the shower, staring piteously up at them. That expression alone has made them more vigilant about arguing only in private. As Steve had so bluntly informed him in the kitchen, Bucky had just broken that rule rather spectacularly.

“Papa — Dad — I don’t get exactly what’s going on right now,” he frowns pleadingly.

Bucky tucks the towel tighter around his waist and sweeps Lincoln up into his arms, folding him into a strong, placating embrace. He looks toward the ceiling with an unsteady exhale, and then toward Steve, knowing Lincoln’s face is too deeply buried in his still-damp shoulder to watch him grasping so desperately for words. “I’m sorry, baby. We wanted to surprise you.”

“Was it supposed to be like a _good_ surprise?”

Bucky falters. The way his son said that makes him think that this conversation can only go downhill from here. “Well — yeah, Lincoln. Getting pregnant is exciting.”

Lincoln sits up, looking from Steve to Bucky and back, as if he’s trying to gauge _their_ happiness and excitement, to see whether or not he should be happy, himself. He must not see promising expressions. His brow wrinkles into a tiny, deep furrow. “So...what’s going to happen? Or...like — how do you even know?”

“See this big bruise on my cheek?”

“Yeah — is that because, um, is that because you’re pregnant?”

“No — you see all the other little cuts and bruises I got while I was working yesterday?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Well, I wanted to make sure I didn’t have any really bad injuries, so I let Friday use one of her special scanners to look at my insides. Remember how she had to do that to your arm, so we could see if the bone was broken or not?”

“Sort of. That was...well, I was pretty much a baby, so I don’t remember that very well.”

“Okay. So, when she was looking at my insides, she found out that I was pregnant. And that’s how _I_ found out.”

“But — what’s going to happen?”

Steve, with a smile of growing confidence, takes over from there. “Lincoln, remember when we were learning all about different kinds of animals? Do you remember where the baby animals come from?”

“They grow inside the grown up ones until they’re big enough to come out, and so then they can, um, fight off predators? Or just not die by themselves.”

“Yeah,” Steve nods. “They stay inside the parent’s belly until they can survive on their own.”

“But the dads and the moms still have to take care of them sometimes. And sometimes it’s a long time.”

“Uh-huh,” Bucky interjects, kissing his son’s cheek lightly. “Sometimes it’s eighteen years.”

“Um, except — I still don’t know what’s happening, you guys.”

Bucky throws Steve a trepidatious glance. They’re going to have to get specific. “Lincoln, there’s a baby inside my belly. Just like the animals we learned about.”

“But — but I thought mostly that was stuff like lions and animals that live on a farm. Or dogs. Or fish when they make eggs, except for dolphins that don’t use eggs.”

“Dolphins aren’t fish, Lincoln. They’re aquatic...what?”

“...Whales.”

“No.”

“Fish.”

 _“Mammals,_ Lincoln.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“And humans are also mammals, right? And we can get pregnant, too,” Bucky reminds him hesitantly. He doesn’t want to insult his son’s intelligence, but he’s not entirely sure what Lincoln’s not _getting_ here. “And I’m pregnant.”

“But when a human gets pregnant — is it like, a calf, or a kitten, or a puppy...or, just….what’s the baby version?”

“It’s...babies, Lincoln,” Bucky replies slowly, wondering how the most brilliant child he’s ever met can possibly be this thoroughly lacking for logical reasoning skills. “Humans get pregnant and make human babies. ”

“So, that’s what you got? Like, an actual _baby?_ And we’re going to have a baby? Here in this house? _”_

“Yes,” Bucky grins. Steve joins their embrace, looking like he’s over the fucking moon. _Finally,_ Lincoln seems like he’s beginning to understand. “Exactly.”

“When is it going to get here?”

“In about seven months,” Bucky realizes, feeling his heart flutter against his ribcage. Steve sways a little in the same moment, as if his knees have suddenly gone weak, too. “Next January or February.”

“So…” Lincoln looks down at Bucky’s chest, tapping out each month against his collarbone as he counts. “That’s...it’s June right now, so then there is July, August, September, October, um — uh, November, December.... _then_ it’s going to be January again, and then February. That’s a whole year from now.”

“It’s seven or eight months,” Steve repeats. “Twelve months make a year, remember?”

“No, but it _is_ going to be a year. Because right now it's 2022 and then it's already going to be 2023, when I'll be six.”

Bucky is learning — slowly — to choose his battles. They’ll deal with the concept of time later. Right now, they need to focus on acclimating Lincoln to the idea of having a brother or sister. “So, what do you think, Lincoln? Are you excited to have a little brother or a little sister?”

“Can I get down?”

Bucky obliges, hoping that Lincoln won’t just take off back into his room and occupy himself with something — God knows, he’s ended conversations and lessons like that plenty of times before. But Lincoln stands right in front of him, squinting at his belly like he’s trying to see through his skin.

“Is it _inside_ there?”

“Mm-hm,” Bucky smiles.

“Is it — what if it’s covered in potatoes and stuff?”

Bucky holds himself together a little better than Steve does — Steve, not wanting Lincoln to see him laughing at his honest question, has to turn away with a hand over his eyes. Bucky takes Lincoln’s hand and places it near the top of his abdomen. “The potatoes are up here in my stomach,” he explains, then shifts Lincoln’s hand down and presses it just below his navel. “The baby’s all the way down here. And it’s not covered in potatoes, I promise.”

Lincoln presses his ear as hard as he can into Bucky’s stomach and Bucky, unprepared for the enthusiastic investigation, stumbles backward a step and bumps into Steve. He looks up at him, just to share a laugh over how serious Lincoln is about this all of a sudden, and Steve places a hand on his back, needlessly supporting and steadying him, and suddenly it’s like they’ve never exchanged a cross word in their lives. It’s the kind of moment that makes Bucky thankful for every single second of his life, no matter how painful or terrifying, that ultimately led him to _this._ The blissful quiet lasts until Lincoln, despite his usually impressive memory for anatomy, hooks his pointer fingers into Bucky’s belly button and presumably tries to pull it open far enough to see inside his stomach.

“Ow-ow — ah! Lincoln! _Stop—”_

“Sorry, I just wanted to see it.”

“You can’t see into somebody through their belly button, goofball,” Steve snorts, pushing him back playfully.

“I thought that maybe it was like the thing on the door where you can peak a little bit, even though the hole is really, really tiny.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not,” Bucky sighs, rubbing his stinging skin through barely contained laughter. At least Lincoln has cheered up, now. Bucky reaches down and ruffles his tangles hair. “You excited, baby?”

But Lincoln just hums the tune of an _I don’t know_ and shrugs, then stares expectantly up at his parents. “Could we maybe go play more baseball?”

Steve catches Bucky’s eyes and smiles over at him, tired-eyed and finally seeming content. Bucky agrees. They’ll count this as a victory, because it’s not exactly a defeat.

Steve turns a skeptical gaze on his son, watching him carefully before he replies. Bucky knows exactly why — he can see those sleepy little blinks, too. “What about that picture you were going to draw for Sam?”

Lincoln’s eyes shift lazily from side to side, recalling the present he’d promised his godfather. “Oh, yeah,” he sighs, obviously fighting back a yawn.

“You know,” Steve says slyly, kneeling down to pull Lincoln closer, brushing his fingers soothingly through his bangs to tempt him, “it’s only 7:30, sweetheart. Still kind of early for baseball and drawing. You sure you don’t want me to put on _Batman?_ Or maybe _Fantasia?”_

Oh, that bastard knows what he’s doing. Lincoln has been known to doze off watching _Batman,_ but _Fantasia_ hits that kid with the force of a warm glass of milk and a Vicodin.

“Maybe you could take a little nap, huh? I don’t think you got much sleep last night, did you?”

“No — I actually didn’t even sleep an inch.”

“Me and Papa are going to be here all day. We can play baseball later and eat lunch outside. Have a picnic. That sound like fun?”

Lincoln squints back at him, trying to look like he has any say in the matter; if he doesn’t start walking to the couch right about now, he’s going to be asleep before he gets there. “Okay.”

* * *

Twelve minutes later, and Bucky has finished redressing the cuts on his face and shuffled off into the bedroom. There’s soft classical music drifting in from the living room, and he’s swiftly abandoning the notion of pushing through the rest of his day without getting a few hours of sleep. It was a hard night, between dealing with Batroc, flying home across a few time zones, vomiting for most of the flight, discovering that there was another baby on the way, and explaining that delicate subject to his five year old son. _I owe myself this,_ he tells himself, and without even a momentary second thought, he drops his wet towel unscrupulously on the the floor and throws himself down onto the bed, pulling the cool sheet up to his waist and placing Steve’s pillow over his eyes to block the morning sunshine beaming defiantly in through their curtained window.

The mattress creaks under Steve’s weight just a few minutes later. “Bucky? You awake?” he whispers.

“Yeah, barely,” he mumbles through the fabric of Steve’s pillow. “Lincoln?”

“Passed out while the orchestra was tuning.”

“Good.”

Steve pulls him gently onto his side, taking back his pillow and letting Bucky rest on his arm instead, with his face buried against his chest. Bucky can’t say he minds. Steve’s t-shirt smells like sweat and cleaning products, and there’s just a hint of mustard from the stain near the collar. Bucky smiles — that shirt’s obviously too filthy to wear to bed. He fidgets sleepily with the hem of it until Steve understands what he wants, takes it off, and tosses it blindly toward the laundry hamper. That’s better.

“Guess you’re too tired to celebrate.”

Bucky presses his body closer to Steve and kisses whatever patch of skin his lips are pressed against. “What do you wanna do?” he laughs.

“Well — there’s a lot of stuff I’d _like_ to do,” Steve wheedles suggestively.

“Mm.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yeah. I might fall asleep, though.”

“I think I can make sure you don’t.”

“If I doze off...just keep going…”

“No,” Steve chuckles. “That’s—that’s no fun for anybody.”

“Come on, Steve...I want sex and a nap. I could get both…”

“How about one at a time? Sex and then a nap?”

“Sure,” Bucky agrees, voice echoing dreamily in his own head. _Maybe the other way around, though._ He thinks he says the words out loud, although he might already be dreaming.

**Author's Note:**

> There's one more part of this story on the way, in which Steve and Bucky finally steal some time alone together, and Lincoln tries to passive-aggressively nail Steve in the face with a baseball.
> 
> Thanks to DinahMighty, who left a really sweet comment on [Something Good Can Work](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14630541) that gave me the energy to finish this one shot.


End file.
